Gender Switch
by Sera dy Relandrant
Summary: Ch 2: What if Robb and Sansa had their genders swapped?
1. Daeron and Visenya

**Viserys and Daenerys**

One-and-twenty years before, she had been anointed with the seven oils and named in Baelor's Great Sept. Visenya, her brother Rhaegar had chosen her name. Visenya for Aegon's warrior queen.

_His hand was already pledged to the Dornish girl by then, _her mother had told her. _It would have looked ill to have broken an alliance of a year's standing just because a sister had been born. But your brother promised me that when you came of age, he would take you to wife as well just as the dragons of eld took more than one wife. Gentle Elia would be his Rhaenys, he said, and you would be his fierce Visenya. _

Aegon's sister had wielded Dark Sister and soared through the skies on dragonback before her army, breathing fire and destruction and terrible bloodshed. Rhaegar's sister wielded her smiles and her courtesies and waited for the army Doran Martell had promised her for ten years.

_I have waited all my life and more, _she thought bitterly. Waiting was a woman's lot, they had taught her in Dorne. Waiting, wailing, weeping. From Dragonstone, Ser Willem Darry had smuggled her and her infant brother, Daeron Stormborn, to the safety of Dorne - the safety of exile. When she was nine, Doran had betrothed her to his six-year-old son, Quentyn. They had dyed her and her brother's hair black and passed them off as Oberyn's bastards. She had been raised in the stifling luxury of the court of Sunspear, the suffocating opulence of the Water Gardens. Had they hoped to dull her wits with the fruits of comfort, to take the edge off the only purpose she lived for?

Never.

_The dragon does not forget._ Her wits were as keen as the Valyrian blade her brother had meant for her to wield. Her appetite had only been whetted.

In Dorne, the septas had taught her and her foster-sisters that courtesy was a lady's armour, tears her weapon. That might be true of ladies, of weak, snivelling women, the lesser beasts of the field. It was not true of dragonesses.

Obara had discovered that one spear was better than a thousand tears, Tyene that the tears of Lys worked a better magic than tears of salt and Arianne and Visenya had learnt that the weapon between their legs was the best of all.

_They say that the greatest whores of Braavos can buy an army of sellswords with but one night's work, _Visenya thought idly. From the shadows, she watched the boys sparring in the courtyard as was her custom. Daeron was paired with Doran's youngest son, Trystane. His footwork was not very good, she thought critically. He really was a pathetic creature, not at all the equal of their noble brother, the peerless Rhaegar. To be sure she never seen Rhaegar sparring, she could scarcely remember his face now. But he had been magnificent, she was sure. The Usurper had slain him by some vile had been the last of the dragons and the boy stumbling before her was but the shadow of a snake.

_I was a fool to ever put my faith in him_, she thought bitterly. Stormborn - those had been dark days. When he had been born, she had allowed herself to hope. Their mother had died in birthing him but she had counted the loss of a queen against the birth of a prince and thought it worth the price. She had craddled her baby brother and cooed a lullaby into his little ears while the Silent Sisters dressed their mother's cold body. Rhaegar had named her and she had named their brother - Daeron, for the Young Dragon who had conquered Dorne, Daeron, for the king who had held the realm against the Blackfyres. She had thought he would do great things, that he would protect her because he was her brother.

_Rhaegar could not protect me. Daeron cannot either - I would have done better to name him Aenys or Baelor, for a mummer's king is all that he is fit to be. _

She turned her mind to other things. _Doran has promised me an army for years. He will promise me for years more, until I do something. Doran is a liar and when I am queen I will tear his tongue out with pinchers and chop off his hands and his feet, what does a gouty old fool need of hands and feet? But I shall be merciful of course, a queen must show mercy. He saved our lives once and for that I will spare his life. _

Arianne though... Arianne was not her father. Blood ran in her veins, in place of milk. And Oberyn, he was a man. He hungered for justice, for vengence for Elia and her butchered babes. _I will serve him the Usurper's children, chopped up like pigs. I will rip out the younger boy's heart with my bare hands and let the little girl live for a while. Then I'll force the Lannister queen to dine on the raw, bloody heart and if she refuses I'll roast her daughter in the flames, before her eyes. _The thought made her smile. She had always been so clever. _Arianne and Oberyn have gathered Lemonwood, Spottswood, the Darkstar and sellswords from Pentos to our cause._ They would not fail her.

_Quen can have the green-haired Tyroshi girl he was sweet on. There is no shame in breaking off a betrothal - Doran failed to marry us though I have been a woman these five years. _Doran the doublecrosser. She would flay him alive in the hot sun, in the marketplace of Sunspear and then she would have him bathed in salt-water, it would itch, oh yes it would... but she would be merciful. She would spare his life. He had once been like a father to her - not as great and noble as her own wise father, of course, but still...

She would marry Daeron, the soft, snivelling boy she'd once loved because she had thought that he would grow to be a man who would win their throne back. The dragon did not mate with lesser beasts of the field. It had been wrong to break with custom, the gods had frowned when Rhaegar had wed Elia and sent the Stark whore to break the marriage and break their rule. They ought to have waited for her to grow up, but she would make amends, she would wed Daeron though she loathed the idea. Things would not have come to such a pass if they had waited. She would have been Rhaegar's beloved queen, beautiful and wise and compassionate, the mother of his sons.

_Daeron will have to do. _The stupid boy stumbled and slipped. Laughing, he let Trys pull him up. That was disgusting. He'd _slipped. _And now he was laughing, laughing as though it meant nothing, as though he had not _lost. _

_The gods have made a jape of us, _she thought furiously. _I was to have wielded the sword. I would have been the legendary warrior, a thousand times better than this worm. _She was Rhaegar's sister, she was as great as him.

"Daeron," she said coldly. "Come to me, brother."

The boy stopped laughing quick enough and meekly trudged towards her. He looked like a sheep being led to slaughter. So he was frightened of his own sister, was he? The weakling. What had she ever done to make him fear her so?

"Yes, sister?"

She drew back her arm and he flinched before she could slap him. The look on his face gave her pause. Instead of slapping him, she stroked his cheek. "Daeron, my sweet," she whispered and startled the boy opened his eyes wide. His eyes were indigo, darker than her own lilac ones. _Not even a true Targaryen purple._ "Did you think that I would slap you?"

He looked at his feet. She raised his chin up. "No, you must not be frightened," she said. "What have I taught you?"

"The dragon fears no one," he said softly.

"And you have faced worse than a little slap from your loving sister, yes? And you will face worse on the battlefield, won't you?"

He mumbled something in response, too frightened to answer her back properly. She had made him face worse - she had whipped him with a spiked club, struck him with an iron pole... oh all to toughen him up, of course. She loved him too much to really hurt him. _I am too soft on him. _Gently, she straightened his shoulders. "Don't slouch. You must remember that you are the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, that all that is lacking is the Iron Throne."

The look on his face said _only that _but he said nothing. She had trained him not to talk back to her. "I've been watching you," she lied. "You've improved."

His face brightened. "Really?" he breathed. His delight was palpable. Really, it was disgusting - a prince ought to have more dignity. Rhaegar had, she was sure. "Do you think maybe one day I'll be as good as Rhaegar, perhaps?"

"No, of course not," she snapped. "Who put such a fool idea in your mind?" Then she relented, noting the crestfallen look on his face. "But perhaps you'll be passable someday, not as good as I would have been had I been a man but passable, I suppose, quite passable. There now, don't smile, it makes your face look lopsided. Let me hear you recite the names of the dragons, like I taught you to. All the dragons, mind, the ones up to eight centuries before Aegon the Conqueror." That made three hundred dragons in all, but she was too gentle on him. She ought to have told him to recite the names of the dragons going back fifteen centuries - that made over seven hundred names in all.

"Baene, dragon to Queen Rhae the First..." he recited dutifully.

_Empty pitchers make much noise, _she thought, ticking off the names and shaking him when he muddled the names up. No matter, Daeron was thirteen now. Old enough to get her with child. After she had a son with him, he could be dispensed. The thought made her smile.

* * *

><p><strong>Jaime and Cersei<strong>

Joy pounded her hands on the bed and screamed.

"I will not, I tell you!" she yelled fiercely. "I will _not _marry that great blustering oaf, I won't, you'll have to drag me in chains to the sept but I won't say the vows, no not if they pull all my toenails out and put rusted nails inside my ears! And when I'm bed with him I'll _bite _his cock off, I will!"

Looking at his sister, her hair dishevelled over her face and her eyes as wild as the Mad King's, Tyrion could almost believe it of her. Some girls played dishevelled beautifully. Their hair would be tousled quite attractively over their faces and it was almost a pleasure to kiss the tears off their cheeks. Not Joy though. When Joy played dishevelled, she played it like the Mad King would have. She slammed doors so hard that they swung off their hinges. She punched her hands through walls and broke her fingers. She smashed whatever was at hand and woe to the unfortunate servingman who was standing outside when she began pelting rocks and cutlery out of the windows.

"Joy," Tyrion began uncertainly. He was ten and Joy was seventeen. She played monsters and maidens with him and insisted that he was no more a monster than she was a maiden. She told him stories about the court and how Ser Arthur Dayne and Prince Oberyn Martell sparred with _both_ their swords. In short, she was the only one in the family who had shown him any kindness and he loved her with all his heart... but this was not a matter he could handle. He wished Cerwyn would speak up - if anyone was to deal with their sister now, it should be him.

"I won't be sold off like a cow to Robert Baratheon!" she screamed and there was a piteous look in her eyes when she turned to Cerwyn. "You won't let Father do this, will you? Will you, Cerwyn? I'll tell you what we'll do, I'll dress up like a serving-maid just as I used to when I visited you at court and then you'll sneak me off somewhere, yes, somewhere in the hills, they'll never find us, we'll be just like castaways..." She'd stood up and was raking through the piles of clothes she'd thrown on the floor. "Where's that shift I wore? There, this'll make me look a maid, Jaff will sneak me out and he won't tell Father..." She'd pulled out a trunk and was tumbling bits and pieces of clothing in it when Cerwyn spoke up.

"Do be sensible," he drawled. He was sitting by the window, his long legs crossed. They were mirrors of eachother, the twins. Cerwyn was older than a minute by Joy - and he had never let her forget it. But where Joy was all but perfect, in Tyrion's eyes, Cerwyn's heart was as dark as his face was fair. Ser Cerwyn the Golden, they called him to his face. The Craven Lion, they called him to his back. The Whoremaster.

Joy's face was sullen. "I don't do sensible. That's you."

"You play stupid exceedingly well - all the men seem to like it. Sometimes I think you're not playing at all."

"Hang the men, I don't care about them, all I care about is you, you know that-" Her voice quivered and Tyrion truly felt sorry for her. Cerwyn was the only man in Joy's life but Joy was not the only woman in Cerwyn's, everyone knew. Joy might have endured fishwives and scullery maids - she had been raised to know that men's needs were different from women's. But Cerwyn Lannister was no Robert Baratheon. Robert whored for his pleasure, Cerwyn whored for the sake of business. Every woman - and a few men, he'd heard the whispers - he slept with had something to give him - patronage, a secret or two whispered in the night, dark tales that could do a world of harm.

_The Whoremaster of Spies, _Joy, whose jealousy was notorious, had once called him. He'd slapped her then but she'd said nothing - Joy would have lashed back at any man who treated her so, even their lord father, but she was Cerwyn's dog. Tyrion pitied his sister as much as he hated his brother.

"You care about me? _You _care about _me_?" Cerwyn's laugh was ugly. "Sweet sister, it was you who tried to talk me into wearing a whitecloak. _We would be together forever, _you told me. Convenient for you, eh? I'd lay with no other woman and your precious imp would have Casterly Rock." He threw Tyrion a look of contempt. If Joy had not been there to stay his hand, he would have done far worse. Tyrion had seen the ugly side of Cerwyn more often than he cared to - the burns on the side of his face testified to that. "I think not."

"I never meant-"

"You never meant, did you? You never mean anything at all. But of course, you're only a woman, how could I forget? Women never mean anything at all, soft, squalling fools-"

"Soft, squalling fools," Tyrion murmured. "Isn't that what our lord father called you after you mismanaged the army he was generous enough to lend you?" He chuckled. "Made a botch of it, didn't you? He said you never thought far away enough. You make a few clever moves but it's a pity you're so near-sighted-"

Cerwyn stood up but before he could reach Tyrion, Joy had pulled him out of his reach. "Don't you touch him," she hissed and for a moment, she looked Tyrion could see why she was Cerwyn's twin. The Joy of Casterly Rock, they called her and said she was as good as she was beautiful, though as wild as a lioness. They did not know half the tales about her. Laughing, she had once told him about what she'd done to one of her bedmaids, Melaera, who'd flirted with Cerwyn and who'd known more about Joy and Cerwyn than she ought to have. _I shoved her down a wall, I did. I didn't like the way she cried for days afterwards, but it had to be done, you see... _"Don't you dare touch him."

Cerwyn drew back, pretending not to care. "Play with your imp while you will," he said languidly. "You'll soon be at King's Landing and the imp will be with me here. Father won't notice if we're a dwarf short, I'm sure."

"Didn't King's Landing burn down?" Tyrion asked curiously. The Mad King had burnt the city down with wildfire, before Robert Baratheon could enter. Ten thousand people had died screaming, among them King Aerys, his good-daughter and his little grandchildren. Father had been relieved - he said that it had spared them all the bother of executing the Targaryens themselves. The Martells were so furious with Aerys' treachery that they'd willingly dipped their banners to King Robert.

"They're building another King's Landing on the other side of the river," Cerwyn said languidly. "Trust them to be imaginative with the name - they're naming it King's Landing."

Joy had apparently had enough of a sensible conversation. She was like that. "King's Landing I or King's Landing II, I don't care," she said petulantly, positioning herself to pound her bed with her fists again. "I'm not going, I'm not going to marry him, I'm not going to marry any man at all!"

"Father will like that."

Joy responded with a suggestion that was not quite ladylike.

"I'm sure he's done that often enough. There's a reason they used to call it the Tower of the Hand."

Joy began to laugh but paused. "You're trying to cheer me up," she said sulkily. "I don't want to be cheered up. Why can't I marry you, Cerwyn? The Targaryens did that, for ages and no one said anything-"

"And the gods frowned on them." Cerwyn sighed and sat down next to his sister. "Sweetling," he said, apparently quite sincerely. "You know how I love you, but I can't marry you. You must marry for our advantage, for _my_ advantage and Robert Baratheon is the king. If you were to marry him, they would call your sons his and they would reign as kings."

"They'd be his sons too, wouldn't they?"

In response, Cerwyn stroked his sister's hair. Joy cuddled closer to him and Tyrion's heart wrenched painfully. "Leave us," Cerwyn said curtly. When he did not, Cerwyn's voice sharpened. "What do you want, imp? Leave us, I said!"

"Tyrion, go," Joy said drowsily. "Cerwyn will take care of me."

The love in his sister's voice broke his heart. "As you wish," Tyrion said quietly and shut the door behind them.

**A/N: Next chapter is if Rhaegar was a boy and Lyanna a girl and maybe one about if Robert was a girl. I like switching the character's genders.  
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	2. Rachyl and Sandor

**Robb and Sansa**

They have put a new whore amongst her women.

A daughter of one of the Lannisters' bannermen, a slip of a girl from the Crag shepherded by a beady-eyed mother. Jeyne Westerling is seventeen, Queen Rachyl's own age, her wedding dower and tainted lineage insufficient to attract a suitable husband, her pretty face and noble name suitable for a place amongst the Queen's maids of honour.

Rachyl watches her young husband play the charmer as it suits his whimsy tonight, the gallant, golden young king. She has not yet been a month at court and already, she has made a fortune for herself in silks and jewels. Judging by the look on her face, she goes to Joffrey's bed willingly now, little dreaming how dear those fripperies will cost her when the king wearies of playing the gentle knight.

Her good mother is like a cat in the cream. "His Grace seems quite entranced," Queen Cersei murmurs silkily as Joffrey sweeps the laughing girl on to the floor. "I fear he does not pay you the homage that is due to your beauty, sweet daughter."

Rachyl refuses to be baited. "It is hard for a woman to be beautiful when she is five months with child," she says smoothly, though that had not stopped him the last time. "I pray Joff has good sport with the Lady Jeyne." _Or it will go hard on me. _

"Indeed." Cersei places a hand almost tenderly on Rachyl's swelling stomach. "Perhaps there will be a little prince in the cradle soon, so that Joff might return to his true queen. I pray day and night at the sept that you will not miscarry, not as you did the last time."

Her mother hears. "My daughter could hardly be blamed for the miscarriage," Lady Catelyn says sharply. "It was your son who-"

Queen Cersei smiles in delight. "Joffrey can be... rough," she says sweetly. "But it was surely no less than a traitor's daughter would merit?" She brushes an auburn curl from Rachyl's face. "He raised you from a traitor to a queen," she says lightly. "When his councillors thought it more meet that he take a more deserving bride - the girl from Highgarden, say. Remember what you owe him, Rachyl."

She brushes her fingers lightly over the bruise blooming over her cheekbone. It tingles, but it cannot be seen. Queen Cersei sent her an ointment from Essos, especially prepared from powdered pearls, to cover it up. _A queen must always look her best. Take this as a gift from me - I found it most useful when Robert had his way with me. _

"And Your Grace must remember what you owe me," she says dryly. With three years of marriage behind her, sometimes she dares to address her mother-in-law flippantly - at least when no one can hear them. "Surely a friendless, powerless traitor's daughter is better than a Tyrell with a powerful family?"

Queen Cersei laughs. "Look after yourself, my lady," she says. "I would not have this child end the way the other one did. It was well enough that he was so young then, too young perhaps to be a father but now... now it is time my son has an heir. Lady Arya," she says suddenly, with a snap of her fingers. There is a steely glint in her eyes and Lady Catelyn half-rises.

Rachyl's sister rises from her seat among the Queen Dowager's little maids. She is twelve now, but old for her age. She has had to be, to grow up in this court as a traitor's daughter, a friendless queen's sister, she who had witnessed a merciless king's shame.

Arya makes her curtsey perfectly - she has often been whipped, nay scourged for infringements of decorum sometimes by Queen Cersei herself, more often by Joff who would strip her. Sometimes they would make Rachyl or her mother watch.

Now she obeys, she plays her part perfectly but Rachyl can still see the wolf in those eyes she keeps carefully lowered.

"A pretty little maid," Queen Cersei says and Rachyl sees with a shock what she has overlooked in her own self-absorption these past few months. They have put her sister in silks, white and grey to match her eyes, strings of pearls looped in her smooth dark hair. She is as slim and straight as a willow, yet there are new curves in her body. Twelve years old - of an age to be wedded and bedded, Rachyl thinks. No doubt they will match her off now. She is glad of it - there can be no worse place than King Joffrey's court for Arya.

"And... freshly flowered too, your lady mother tells me. Come here, child."

Queen Cersei cups the girl's cheek in her hand and smiles. "So fresh and comely - and yet His Grace choses to waste his time on old harridans. This will not do. Joffrey, my sweet son."

The dancing is over and Cersei could not have chosen a better time to call her son. Joff is plainly bored with flirting, and yet it is too early to retire to bed with his whore. "Mother," he says with a smile, ambling over to them. Cersei's hold on Joff sometimes shocks Rachyl - she has had her doubts about the Kingslayer and the Queen and now about Cersei, golden Cersei, still beautiful, and her young son.

_She is fair to look upon yet, _Rachyl thinks. _And the Gods know there is nothing she would not do for power. _

Cersei turns Arya like a little doll, her hands slipping around the girl's waist to emphasize it's smallness, stroking Arya's shining hair. "Your sister has grown," she says. Sister. With Myrcella in Dorne, far away from Joffrey's reach (sometimes Rachyl suspects that is why Cersei has sent her daughter so far away and her younger son to Casterly Rock), Arya is Joffrey's sister.

"Tell her how pretty she is tonight, Joff."

Arya does not flush to be displayed in such a manner, as Rachyl had flushed and wept when she had been stripped in front of the whole court. She presses her lips tightly together, like a little child soldier, and looks down. Down. Always down. She has learnt a hard lesson.

"Very pretty," Rachyl says quickly, trying to spare her sister. "But not so pretty as me, sweet husband."

Lady Catelyn laughs. "Not in the least, Rachyl. Arya takes after the Starks and the gods know for all their virtues, comely is not what a Stark is often called. A plain baggage, I would say - Rachyl was a beauty at her age."

"She looks well enough to me," Joffrey says, licking his fat, wormlike lips. "Not like you, Rachyl - you've swollen up like a barge. Sister Arya," he says, offering her his hand. "Would you care to dance with me?"

Arya says nothing, she rarely speaks these days because every word she utters is punished. Instead she slips into his grip, her lips almost invisible now. Joff's eyes meet Rachyl's and he smiles as he squeezes her sister's waist hard. He will not touch her again, she knows - not until she has delievered an heir. His mother has spoken to him on that matter. Instead he will take out his frustrations on her sister.

"I fear that the wedding bells will not ring soon for our Lady Arya," Queen Cersei says lightly. "My son would be loath to part with his sweet sister, to hand her over perhaps to an ungentle husband."

Rachyl says nothing but watches the dancers as hungrily as her mother - Joffrey and Arya, and their brother Sandor who has gamely picked up Joffrey's last partner, Jeyne Westerling. There is nothing Sandor adores more than Joffrey's leftovers - in truth Rachyl sometimes thinks him more of Joffery's dog than Clegane. Clegane does what he does for money, Sandor for love.

Joffrey laughingly calls them his ugly dog and his handsome dog.

_It was always like this, _she thinks, remembering the first time they had met. Sandor had been eleven, Joffrey a year older. It had been love at first sight, surviving their father's execution, the killing of their wolves, the murder of his younger brother (to this day, their mother claimed that it been the Lannisters who had killed Bran in his sleep, soon after he had arrived in King's Landing as a crippled hostage) and the various indignities heaped on his sisters. Sandor was blind and Joffrey loved him for it.

_You would hardly think him a hostage, _Rachyl thinks with disgust. Sandor loves the south, the lightness and gaiety of a merry, sparkling court, the pasteboard chivalry he still believes in, the silks and the songs, in a way his life-hardened sisters do not. He actively dreads the thought of being sent back north. Rachyl can dream of nothing more.

Once he had been their mother's favourite, the firstborn son who loved her so well, with whom he shared so much. Once.

He hopes to take a Lannister bride, to be known as King Joffrey's most trusted friend and loyal vassal, to wipe the taint of treachery from their House or so he claims. He wants to be everything he should not.

Rachyl can still remember the look on his face after she miscarried the last time. He told her it was her fault, to anger her husband and king. She had deserved it. He had said that to her face, her sweet brother whom she had sung to when he was a babe in the cradle, whose shirts she had clumsily sewn when she was a little girl, wanting to make the best for her baby brother.

_And he will send Arya to Joffrey's bed with his blessing, _she thinks. _Because Joffrey is good to him, he is blind. But the day must come when Joffrey hurts him and what will Sandor do then? _

It was an interesting question to ponder.

"You did not attend court this morning, did you?" Queen Cersei asks idly.

"No good mother," she says. _I was getting beaten by Joffrey when court was going on. _

"Then you missed a rather interesting petitioner. That bastard brother of yours - Snow, what was his name?"

"Jon?" Rachyl says in shock. "Jon was here, at court? Why was I not told?"

Queen Cersei plays with the rings on her fingers, a catlike smile on her face. "You and Joff seemed rather busy at the moment so naturally I thought..."

"Yes," Rachyl says icily. "His Grace was busy giving me this." And she touches the bruise on her cheekbone.

"Was he now?" Queen Cersei says lazily, looking pleased. "He was on the business of the Night's Watch... wanting more men on the Wall, they always do. We sent him a few dregs from the prisons - not too many, Joff wanted to experiment with some of the men kept in the black cells. He has spent many hours with the pyromancers, discussing a rather interesting performance to commemorate the birth of his son.

It will involve a great many men - he needs the dungeons as full as possible so we ere forced to send your half brother away almost empty handed. He kept on and on about wights and White Walkers, what a dreadful bore my dear so I had him whipped and warned him to be on his way out of the city by sundown."

She strokes Rachyl's hand. "Perhaps I ought to have asked you whether you wished to see him? How thoughtless of me. I remember you were close. Yes, I remember all those secret smiles and laughs at Winterfell. He was rather dashing in his coarse way and girls always do adore men who take after their fathers, I was told..."

"He is my brother," Rachyl whispers, appalled.

Cersei's face says 'and so?' "You seemed almost indifferent to Joff then, though that might be expected. He was only a child then and he fancied playing at swords with your charming younger brother more than flirting with his betrothed, a woman grown by then. It distressed your lady mother no end then, how fond you both were of eachother. Now though... I think she might take a broader view."

"He used to be my shining knight," Rachyl says aloud. "When I was a little girl dreaming of southron stories... we played at being knights together before I decided I wanted to be a lady. Sometimes we would go for midnight rides together, he would climb up to my tower window and whisk me away..." _I wish he would now. Oh how I wish he would. _

There is something almost like sympathy in Cersei's gaze. "He sounds just like Jaime," she says softly. "When I was a young wife, sometimes I wished he would carry me away as well, from Robert, from King's Landing." Her eyes are like chips of green ice. "But he never did, Rachyl. He never did."


End file.
